“Hold on.” I pull a small notepad from my pants pocket, take out the pencil I keep in the spiral part, and start to scribble. “Gotta get this down.”
From my peripheral vision, I see her stiffen and frown, almost as if she’s recoiling from the sight of me scribbling.
“I’m sorry, was all of our blisteringly hot sex keeping you from your work?” She sounds wounded. Angry.
“Hold on. This is crucial.” I pocket the notebook and hit the button to start the elevator up again. I wouldn’t call it a breakthrough, but an important piece has fallen into place.
I cup her cheeks. “You are amazing.”
“Oh my god!” She pushes me away. “Are you saying that because you just now got a good idea?”
“No—I mean, I did get a good idea but—”
“Don’t even, Roboto!” She hits the button for her floor even though I’d already selected it. “Thank you for reminding me why this is all wrong.” The elevator car chunks slowly into place.
“Stella—you were amazing before I got the idea. What happened here was amazing, and we need to discuss—we’re not done here.”
“Follow me at your own pineapple risk.” She marches out.
The courier desk girl—Tinley or Linley or something—is there, and Stella grabs her arm and says something I can’t hear, and they laugh. People crowd into the elevator next to me.
We’re not done. I don’t care what she says. If nothing else, I need to explain to her why I wrote the letter—as soon as I warn Cooper. It’s time. What happens in poker stays in poker, but this has gone too far. I’ll warn Cooper and tell her the truth.
I return to my whiteboard and make significant progress using the idea I got in the elevator. How is this possible? I’ve never been more distracted, more all over the map with emotions, and in spite of that, I’m making headway.
Or is it because of it that I’m making headway? Twice I’ve made breakthroughs.
I stroll to the window to look down at the street, shocked at the irony of it.
All this time I’ve been seeking out women who are as busy and driven as me, women who are content with quick hookups, women whose presence in my life doesn’t create even the faintest ripple, lest my work get affected.
And then Stella cannonballs into my life, and my work is better than ever.
Is it possible the distraction of her is a good thing? Or is it the fact that I’m happy when she’s around? Or am I happier because of the work progress? I’m trying to remember when this happiness began, but who the hell cares?
I’m happy with Stella in my life, and already I want to see her again. For the first time in my life, I might be rethinking a code. Is there a time and place where that’s the right thing to do? I find these thoughts scary, destabilizing—but also a little exciting.
Because why is she off-limits? Why does the code exist in the first place? She’s not underage. And yes, I gave my word to Charlie, but that was then. We’re adults now.
This code of mine is like that equation remnant—an artifact from the past that no longer serves, except as a useless obstacle.
People rush back and forth on the street below, streaming around an illegally parked delivery van. I used to judge people who let their heart influence their logic, who create rational-sounding reasons to do things that they’re going to do no matter what.
And here I’m doing it.
I need to see her again. Soon. And again, and again.
And I need to tell her about the letter, too. I’ll make her see why I wrote it—she’ll understand, and it’ll change everything.
ChapterTwenty-Six
Stella
What just happened was wrong,but not because he lost control and then went full math nerd.
The problem is that sex with Hugo was transcendent. As in, the best ever.
Being with him in that place hidden between floors, out of time, out of sight, this man I’ve adored for as long as I can remember.